


The Cat's Cradle

by athena_crikey



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Drama, Gen, Gestapo, Humour, Mission Fic, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-22 12:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14308644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Nothing short of radical surgery would make Carter a beautiful woman, but well-chosen clothes, a long blonde wig and enough make-up to paint a decent-sized picture had produced an almost attractive one.





	1. Newkirk

Somehow the craziest schemes were always hatched over the weekend. Something about the day-shift guards laughing and bantering as they hurried off duty on Saturday for their one night out on the town gave the Stalag the closest approximation of an easy-going feeling it ever had. The kind of feeling, Newkirk considered, that led to downright bizarre plans being cooked up by the colonel.

“Now look. Snow White met her contact in the Cat’s Cradle and got the plans. But before she could get out of there with them the Gestapo burst in to do a spot check. She was in the powder room at the time and managed to hide the plans before she was checked, but she spooked and bolted without going back for them. As far as we know they’re still there, and we’ve got to get our hands on them and relay them to London.” Hogan, standing at the head of the barracks table, glanced round at his men, apparently for suggestions. Newkirk, shuffling a pack of cards, shrugged.

“Sounds like a job for the Underground, sir. Get ‘em to send one of their birds in after the plans. I’d be ‘appy to meet up with ‘er and take ‘em off ‘er ‘ands.”

“I bet,” muttered LeBeau beside him; Newkirk ignored him.

Hogan shook his head. “No dice. The Gestapo’s got their eye on the place; Rapunzel thinks they’re waiting for Black Marketeers. Anyway, the Underground’s cagey about the whole thing. They don’t want to send in anyone who could be recognized later. We need a one-off performance. Some plain, unremarkable farm girl and her beau.” He glanced around and stopped when he came to Carter, clumsily braiding three threads into one on the far side of the table. The sergeant took a moment to notice the colonel’s attention, but when he did he startled so hard he pulled apart his work.

“Me? I-I’m not unremarkable _or_ plain, sir!” said Carter immediately, scrambling for an argument with an expression of horror.

“News to me,” said Kinch softly.

“Why can’t LeBeau do it? He’s closer to the right height!” 

There was a momentary pause as LeBeau scowled, and everyone else pictured the Frenchman in a wig. “Definitely not,” said Newkirk, speaking for the group.

“So glad you agree, Newkirk. You’ll be his escort,” said Hogan, grinning. Newkirk made a face, but didn’t bother protesting. It wasn’t a surprise.

“Or Grandma Newkirk,” continued Carter, still trying to wriggle out of his assigned role.

“Would _you_ let your grandmother go to the Cat’s Cradle?” asked LeBeau.

“I would if she was Newkirk!” replied Carter hotly.

“Alright, enough. That’s the plan and we’re running with it.” The colonel waited for them to calm down, and then went on. “LeBeau, you get Carter dressed up.”

“ _Oui, mon colonel._ ”

“Nothing too skimpy,” added Hogan as LeBeau dragged Carter down into the tunnel. He waited until they were gone before turning back towards Newkirk. “Right. While they’re getting ready, you’ll have to make up some papers for your girl.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Nothing too garish. I’ve always liked Gretchen myself.”

Newkirk sighed. “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

\----------------------------------------------------

By the time LeBeau and Carter emerged from the fitting area, Newkirk had finished Carter’s papers – made out to Gretchen Webber, a pre-war set with no photograph – drawn out a set for himself made out to Karl Flemming, and put on his civilian clothes complete with a pair of glasses, some whiskers and a chestnut brush-in tint to lighten his hair. 

Newkirk, alone in the alcove by the emergency tunnel exit, nearly choked when the two finally appeared.

Nothing short of radical surgery would make Carter a beautiful woman, but well-chosen clothes, a long blonde wig and enough make-up to paint a decent-sized picture had produced an almost attractive one. The long summer dress with a tight waist and full skirt turned lankiness into a slim frame, while high boots with low heels, white gloves and a breezy scarf disguised more serious tells. A largish leather handbag, perfect for hiding plans, and a shawl for the cool summer night completed the outfit. 

“Don’t say anything,” said Carter, instantly ruining the effect. Newkirk winced.

“I think I should be the one sayin’ that. ‘Ere’re your papers, Gretchen.” He handed them to Carter. “They’re pre-war; no photograph.”

“Right.” He took them, made to put them inside his jacket and when he realised he wasn’t wearing one stopped to stare in puzzlement. 

Newkirk rolled his eyes. “In your ‘andbag.”

Carter was just wrestling the clasp open when Hogan and Kinch appeared from the Barracks 2 ladder. Kinch whistled.

“Hey, not bad LeBeau. The next time we need some incriminating photos, we won’t need to call the Underground in.”

“Ha ha,” said Carter sullenly.

“Don’t talk,” said Hogan, wincing. “You guys ready?”

“Yes, sir.” Newkirk stiffened to attention. Carter opened his mouth, and then nodded instead. 

“Right then, you know your mission. Get in, get the plans, and get out. For Pete’s sake, don’t dally. We don’t need you two getting hauled in in the Gestapo net.”

“Right, sir.” He turned to Carter, still fiddling with his bag. “Oh, for – give me that.” He took it, snapped it open and tucked the papers inside. 

“What a gentleman,” said Kinch; both Newkirk and Carter stopped and glared. 

Hogan crossed his arms, checking his watch. “Alright, get going. It’ll be dark enough. Remember, if anyone comes along, you’re just two lovebirds out for a walk.”

“Yes, sir. After you.” Newkirk waved towards the ladder.

“And let you look up my skirt? Fat chance,” scoffed Carter. Newkirk rolled his eyes and shoved the man’s bag back at him as he passed.

“Last time I try to be a bally gentleman.”

\----------------------------------------------------

The June night was just cool enough for a sweater; Newkirk, in a light jacket, was perfectly comfortable. Carter, wandering along beside him and kicking at stones, had his shawl wrapped tight around his shoulders. Newkirk had to give LeBeau credit; he’d managed Carter’s few assets well while downplaying his many problems. Although not tall for a man, Carter was still taller than most women, and the mid-calf heelless boots both minimized that while freeing Carter from having to show his legs – doubtless a benefit. Carter’s thin shoulders and narrow chest had been all to the good, tastefully accented by a distinct but unremarkable bust, while the full skirt emphasized hips that were not in fact there. In the poor starlight, all Newkirk could make out of the man’s face was the flash of his eyes and the blonde of the wig, but it had stood scrutiny in the buttery light of the tunnel. 

And, better, after ten minutes of walking, Carter was already coming out of his sulk, unable to maintain a bad mood for long. He would probably be whistling soon, and swinging the damn handbag. Newkirk sighed. Just two lovebirds out for a walk. Right.

“Hey, Newkirk?” In the darkness, Carter’s voice was just coming from the figure to his left, not a dress and a head of blonde curls.

“What?”

“You think we could hitch a ride back? These boots are killing me.”

“There aren’t even any bloody ‘eels, Carter.”

“Yeah, but they pinch. I think they belonged to Rapunzel, and she may be tall but she doesn’t have big feet.”

“We’ll get you some nice stilettos next time, ‘ow ‘bout that?”

“There’d better not be a next time, boy! Dressing up for a play’s one thing, when everyone knows who you are underneath, but going into town – that’s different!”

“I do it all the ruddy time.” 

“Yeah, as a little old lady! What if some soldier gets fresh?”

Newkirk sighed. “Tell ‘im you’ve got a whole set o’ big brothers waitin’ at ‘ome.”

Carter kicked at a stone, it clattered across the dirt road and into the bushes on the far side. “That’s what I used to tell my little sisters. I mean, I’d tell them to come to me. And if they couldn’t, boy, I taught ‘em where to kick a guy.”

“Same principle applies to you, Carter,” said Newkirk, trying to imagine Carter coming down on potential dates who got too frisky, and failing. 

“Yeah,” said Carter, despondently. “Just kinda makes me wonder who’s looking after them now, y’know?” He kicked at another stone, which turned out to be securely buried and caused him to yelp and stumble.

“I’m sure they can look after themselves,” said Newkirk reassuringly, wondering whether they took after their brother, and if so, doubting it.

“I guess so. Hey look, there’s the town!” 

They had mounted a small hill and now below them they could see the faint lights of Hammelburg, a tiny forest of streetlights with their black-out covers deflecting light downwards. The occasional car was trundling here and there on the narrow streets, but largely the city was quiet as always during bombing hours. Ahead, a car’s shuttered lights flashed on the dirt road. 

“Right, then. Let’s get on with it.” He linked his arm through Carter’s, and headed for the town.

\----------------------------------------------------

As LeBeau had said, the Cat’s Cradle was not a mixing ground Newkirk would have taken his grandmother to. 

As they approached following the directions Newkirk had memorized, the entrance was apparent even a block away from the young people streaming in. Newkirk and Carter crossed the cobble road to the heavy wooden door over which a wooden sign had been affixed to the formidable stone building. It had been painted in garish colours which were barely visible in the poor light of the blacked-out city; squinting, Newkirk could only just make out _Das Fadenabnehmspiel_ scrawled in what the artist at least had considered to be a creative hand.

The corporal pulled the heavy door open absently, and then remembering Carter stood back to let the man enter before him into the foyer. Painted in cheery orange, the small space served only as a coat check; a sole man stood behind the worn wooden desk looking tired and overworked. He greeted them in a flat tone as they walked in, Carter ducking his head and shying away. “May I take your coats?”

Newkirk paused; not to give up his coat would be suspicious, but if they had to make a quick getaway he would be forced to leave it behind. In the end he nodded and shrugged out of it, transferring his wallet and papers to his trousers pockets. “Yes, thank you. Gretchen?” He glanced at Carter, pointedly dropping his eyes to indicate the knitted shawl around Carter’s shoulders.

Carter smiled awkwardly and shook his head, waving a gloved hand deprecatingly. “Just the coat, then,” said Newkirk, turning back to the man and handing it to him over the counter. He handed a wooden marker back, which Newkirk pocketed. “Thanks,” he added as he turned away.

“Thank you, sir,” intoned the man dully, and looked back towards the front door as it rasped open. 

Released from the threat of having to make conversation, Carter unfroze somewhat and let Newkirk tow him towards the entrance. “Remember, just nip across to the powder room, find the plans, and we’ll get out of ‘ere,” he whispered as he reached out to push open the door. 

Newkirk’s first impression, as the heat, smoke and noise hit him, was that they had walked into a plane under fire; it was so strong that he actually took a step back, inadvertently throwing Carter off balance. A moment later his ears processed the noise as a band rather than the mixed bangs and howls of a dogfight, and the smell as cigarette smoke rather than fire. He glanced to Carter; the man was staring wide-eyed at the hall. Newkirk didn’t blame him; he himself hadn’t seen a club in full swing since before the war. If he’d known the Cat’s Cradle was so … _exuberant_ , he’d have begged the colonel to give him a rendezvous there much earlier. Of course, its exuberance, quite out of keeping with war-time belt-tightening, was probably the reason it was on the Gestapo watch-list. 

The main hall of the Cat’s Cradle was large and windowless; a long bar along one side provided drinks while a band tucked away in a back corner blared out brass-heavy swing into the stuffy, smoky air. Near the entrance several small tables and chairs had been set up, but the majority of the floor had been left empty for dancing.

After a moment Newkirk became conscious of a couple standing behind them, and snapped back into the present. “Come here,” he murmured to Carter, still in German, and pulled him into the room and out of the way of the door. They ended up in the cluster of tables, both glancing along the walls for the powder room. Newkirk was first to spot it, on the opposite side of the room nearer to the band. He elbowed Carter in the side and indicated it with his eyes. “Over there,” he said, in Carter’s ear. The man nodded, glanced around, and broke away from Newkirk’s side to push his way into the sea of dancers. 

Newkirk watched him disappear before taking a seat at an empty table. He was just considering ordering a drink when Carter washed back out of the crowd and sat down abruptly on the edge of the chair next to him to yell directly into his ear over the roar of the band. Even so, Newkirk could barely hear him.

“I can’t do it!”

“What? Why bloody not?”

“That’s the woman’s powder room!”

Newkirk leaned back to take a good look at Carter; the man was staring at him earnestly from under long, black eyelashes – either he’d never noticed how long they were, or LeBeau had found false ones somewhere. 

“That’s the point!”

“But – there – it’s for _women_ ,” hissed Carter, blushing bright red. 

Newkirk rolled his eyes. “You just realized this now?”

“It’s not right!”

“Ca – Gretchen, right now _you_ are a woman.” Seeing Carter opening his mouth to object again, Newkirk bulldozed on. “Look, if it bothers you, just don’t look. Keep your eyes on the floor, and you’ll be fine, right?”

Carter looked unconvinced; Newkirk pressed on anyway.

“We need those plans! Just hurry up, then we can go back.” He gave Carter a shove. Carter gave him a dirty look in return, but turned and strode off into the crowd with an entirely masculine gait.

Newkirk put a hand over his eyes.

END PART 1


	2. Carter

Carter had heard of swing clubs, of course, but even Fargo didn’t have one. He associated them with huge cities like New York, cities that in his mind were a hazy mix of gigantic buildings reaching for the sky and floods of taxi cabs. He’d never really imagined visiting one himself, and certainly not in Germany.

And, above that, _definitely_ not dressed as a woman.

The outfit was actually pretty comfortable as far as things went, except for the unnerving sense of cool openness below his waist and the pinching boots. Remembering not to rub at his face was harder. Right now, though, all he was concentrating on was crossing the dance floor to the ladies’ powder room, which he really didn’t want to visit.

Once he had adjusted to the noise and the smoke, he realised that the club was actually smaller than the initial roar and heat made it seem; he doubted there were more than a hundred people in the room, either swinging on the dance floor or lounging at the tables or bar. Most were couples, although here and there a single man or woman floated through the crowd or stood drinking. Nearly all the men were in uniform.

The dance floor was just crowded enough to make navigation a challenge, while still allowing enough room for the dancers to move with some freedom. Carter ducked and dodged between couples, grasping once at his wig as a particularly boisterous pair swept by and sent the long hair at the back running over his shoulder blades in an uncomfortable wave. 

He had almost cleared the crowd, nearly reached the far wall and the sign Damen Toilette, when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and caused him to jump. He spun around, blonde hair whipping into his face, and found himself looking at the double chin of a heavy man in the uniform of a Wehrmacht corporal. 

“Care to dance, _fraulein_?” The man smiled, revealing dirty teeth in crooked rows.

Carter, pulling away and trying to keep the shock off his face, shook his head. 

“Come on, only one dance. It is such a pity to be alone.”

Carter, trying to paste a polite smile on his face while aware that it was closer to a cadaverous grin, shook his head more firmly and hissed out, “No, thank you,” between his teeth in the highest pitch he could manage. 

“You would deny a man in uniform? I fight all day for your safety,” growled the man, leaning in now as the pleasantness disappeared from his face.

Carter, backing away in earnest, could only think that at least he outranked the man. Not a helpful thought.

“Sorry, no,” he tried, fluting his voice again and hoping the blare of the band would help disguise any inconsistencies, and grasped at straws. “My brothers, they don’t like me to –”

“Gretchen? I thought you were going to powder your nose. What are you doing with this man?”

The corporal dropped his pudgy hand from Carter’s shoulder and turned; Carter peered around him and spotted Newkirk, looking unimpressed behind his Karl glasses. 

“You, what were you doing with my fiancée?”

“Your fiancée?”

Newkirk scowled. “Do they not have hearing tests in the army? Yes, my fiancée.”

“Karl,” began Carter, more action than sound in the oppressive blare. Newkirk shot him a glare. 

“I didn’t ask you, Gretchen. Go powder your nose. And you, you keep your hands off other peoples’ fiancées.”

Carter glared back for a minute before recognizing the escape Newkirk had provided and hurrying away; he looked back over his shoulder to see the heavy corporal growl something at Newkirk and lumber off. Turning, he found himself directly in front of the door. 

He pushed through to the quieter sanctuary of the powder room before he’d entire realised what he had just done. He froze with his back against the door, staring aghast at the room beyond.

It was fairly small, decorated in dark wooden waist-high paneling and white walls and grey tile with only one window directly across from him, its glass heavily frosted. On the wall to his right two mirrors hung over two white sinks, while on the one to his left there were three wooden stalls, two of which were closed. Halfway up the wall behind him sat a small set of shelves for women to leave their belongings on. Currently there were three purses sitting on it: two leather and one string. And finally, by far the worst, there was a dark-haired woman leaning in towards the nearer mirror, fixing her make-up. 

Carter stared, back to the door, until she slowly glanced towards him with curious eyes.

“Are you alright?” She was a fairly young woman, almost a girl, really. Carter felt himself flushing under the makeup, and nodded quickly, blonde hair tumbling forward to hide at least some of his face. 

“Yes, fine,” he murmured, smiling falsely. She turned back to the mirror, giving him a chance to catch his breath before he stepped over towards the shelves. All he knew was the plans were in the room, somewhere. He glanced at the mirror and nearly jumped at the sight of a blonde woman staring back at him. He actually turned to look behind him, and it was only when he caught sight of the motion in the mirror that he realised the woman was him. 

Behind him water rushed, and Carter stumbled around and, as one of the stall doors seemed in danger of opening, staggered into the free one.

Closed in a modicum of safety, he sighed and let his head droop and contemplated his choices. Newkirk would’ve been in and out with no problem, he knew. LeBeau would have charmed his way through, Kinch would have used his common sense. The colonel probably wouldn’t even have had to stop to think about it. And here he was, hiding in a stall.

Outside, the door swung open and shut again; no new footsteps entered. A moment later there was a rush of water from the stall to his left, and the click of the door. He stood, almost holding his breath, and listened to the sink being turned on and the low chatter of conversation; the two remaining women were apparently friends. The water shut off; Carter tensed in readiness. Footsteps echoed across the tiled floor, and then the door opened. He waited two heart-beats, and then turned to do a quick check of the stall. There was nothing hidden in it, not in the paper dispenser nor in the toilet cistern. He burst out of his stall and nipped quickly into the second: nothing there. 

In the third, as he lifted the top of the cistern he heard a papery rustle and slowed, running his fingers along the inside. He found a set of papers tucked in between the porcelain lid and body, and slid them out with a deep sigh and into his purse. 

Grinning, he stepped smartly out of the stall and swung his purse up onto his shoulder. Walked over to the door, relief bubbling in his chest, and put his hand on the handle just as the music on the other side cut to an abrupt halt. In the milling confusion on the other side of the door, one sharp voice rang out over the others and quickly brought silence to the room.

“Attention, attention. This is Captain Hainmann of the Gestapo! We are conducting a spot check of this facility!”

Carter’s heart shot right up into his mouth, eyes widening. He stumbled back away from the door and looked around the small room frantically, eyes lighting on the single window on the far wall. He darted across to it and fiddled with the lock. It pushed open outwards from the bottom when he slammed his palm into it, but stopped after only six inches; a metal bar had been affixed to stop it opening further. There was no way he would be able to get out that way.

Any second now someone might come in. If he was caught with the plans… Breathing hard, Carter wrenched off his handbag and dropped it out the window. Sighed, and slumped against the wall. And then straightened, frantically, when he remembered what else was in the bag. 

His papers. The papers which the Gestapo would surely be checking. 

A horrified whine slipped out of his throat as he scrambled up to the window ledge and peered outside; he couldn’t see anything in the darkness. The window’s glass was thick; breaking it would take a hard blow, and would almost certainly be heard. But without his papers, he could be taken in for investigation, and then –

Behind him, someone knocked on the door. Carter leapt back away from the window and towards the sink, tugged his wig down straight and tried to slow his hammering heart. The door creaked open, and a man in a Gestapo uniform glanced in.

“ _Fraulein_? Would you come out, please? We are checking the premises.” 

Carter nodded, head bowed, and pulled his shawl tighter around his shoulders. Grit his teeth together, and stepped out into the now-quiet hall. 

Under the direction of the Gestapo soldiers, the men and women were lining up along both walls to have their papers checked. Carter automatically headed away from the end being checked, back towards the corner where the band had been playing, keeping his head low and trying to keep the panic off his face.

“Gretchen! Gretchen! Hey!” Someone grabbed his shoulder and he spun around, eyes wide, to see Newkirk staring back at him in surprise. “Hey – are you alright?” It took Carter a second to make sense of the words – he was listening for English. Behind them, the Gestapo men were still shouting for everyone to line up against the walls. Newkirk grabbed his arm and tugged him over to the wall at the far end of the room. “Where’re the goods?” he hissed in Carter’s ears.

“Outside,” returned Carter, trying to hunch in on himself. “But so’re my papers.”

“ _What?!_ ” Newkirk spun around, eyes flashing. “What the – you –” he let out his breath between his clenched teeth and closed his eyes in concentration. “Alright,” he said, after a minute. “’Ere’s what we’ll do. We pretend not to know each other. If they want you to go with them, you do. I’ll get your papers and go along after you, like you forgot them at ‘ome when you went out. Got that? Just tell ‘em you forget the papers at ‘ome – say on the kitchen table.”

Carter nodded slowly. “Okay, but what if –”

“No time for what ifs, Gretchen,” replied Newkirk, and then ducked away into the crowd. Carter watched him shimmy through the line-up, pushing his way ahead. Very few of the club-goers wanted to be first in line; he had an easy time working against the current. 

Carter, meanwhile, planted his feet against the slow stream of women and let himself be overtaken. Being in the middle of a parade of young women was doubtless a fantasy of many of the men back at camp, but at the moment he felt nothing but icy fear pounding through him with each painful beat of his heart. His stomach was writhing, hands trembling and with nothing to hold to disguise it. 

The lines moved quickly – too quickly. Apparently such checks were standard by now to the Gestapo, and likely to many of the club-goers as well. Belongings were checked, papers were inspected, and then everyone went back to what they had been doing. 

Except for him. 

He could see the guards now, faces set in angry scowls as they reviewed the documents presented to them and inspected handbags and wallets. Carter felt suddenly naked, as though at a single glance they would be able to tell his identity, and suddenly realised the absurd danger of being caught out as a cross-dresser by the Gestapo. Hitler’s crack-down on perceived deviancy would certainly apply to him – God only knows what would be done to him in the Gestapo’s cells. What had seemed until now a joke, if a poor one, no longer had any trace of humour to it.

The line advanced, woman by woman, bringing him inexorably closer to the two guards, the black surge of their uniforms intended to intimidate – successfully so. Until, at last, it was his turn. 

“Name,” barked the guard – a sergeant, with a pen and paper. 

“G-Gretchen Webber,” he choked out. The guard wrote it down.

“Papers.”

Carter shrunk down, chin low and shoulders tense. “I forgot them,” he whispered. “At home. On the kitchen table. My fiancé…”

“Forgot them?” demanded the guard, looking up. 

“My fiancé went to get them,” continued Carter, feeling the sweat running down his back. “It’s not far; he’ll be here soon.”

“You must carry your papers by law. This is a serious offence,” said the guard, his scowl deepening.

“I’m s-sorry,” stuttered Carter, nearly inaudibly. His legs were shaking, he could feel the folds of his dress brushing against them. “It’s the first time. Please…”

“Wait there.” The guard pointed out a corner of the room; Carter stumbled over, muscles trembling so violently they could barely carry him. 

While Carter waited the sergeant turned to say something to the man beside him, who stood and picked up a clipboard. He walked over, expression sour.

“You are Gretchen Webber?”

Carter nodded wretchedly. 

“Address?”

Carter gave the address from his papers. The guard wrote it down. “You are here alone?”

“No; with my fiancé.”

“His name?”

“Karl. Karl Flemming.” Carter swallowed, ducking his head to disguise his Adam’s apple. 

The guard looked from Carter to the line of men trooping slowly past the other pair of guards. “Where is he?”

“He went to get my papers. I forgot them on the kitchen table,” parroted Carter, gloved hands clenched tightly in front of him. “Please, I didn’t mean –”

“You see, _fraulein_ ,” broke in the guard, stepping closer and putting down his clipboard to give Carter his full attention, “lapses of these sort cost time and effort to put right. Time and effort for which we are not compensated.” He reached out and put his hand on Carter’s waist, pulling him closer still, so near he could smell smoke and aftershave. Carter leaned back, pulling away; the guard’s fingers dug painfully into his waist. “Don’t you think we deserve to be paid for our time?” he asked, leering.

“My fiancé,” muttered Carter, head pulled so far back he was close to over-balancing. 

“Your fiancé cannot pay us, _fraulein_. But you can.” He began trailing his hands lower. Carter felt his stomach flip over, guts squirming like a mess of eels. 

“Gretchen!” called a familiar voice. “Let me through – she’s my fiancée.” Newkirk elbowed his way past the guards, battered papers in his hands. “Here – I have her papers here.” He took a look at the guard manhandling Carter and his face blackened, eyes sharp and narrow. “Hey – you – take your hands off her!”

“Wait your turn, louse,” replied the guard scornfully. 

“Should I call your commanding office?” asked Newkirk. The guard looked unimpressed.

“He will want more than a kiss to pay him back for his time,” he threatened, raking his eyes suggestively over Carter’s form. 

“You want paying? Fine.” Newkirk pulled out his wallet, produced several bills, and held them out. The guard looked down at them consideringly, then slowly released Carter and reached out to take them. He tucked them away in his pocket and patted it. 

“Now your papers,” he said, picking up his clipboard as though the interlude had never happened. Newkirk gave them over and he checked them. “This seems to be in order,” he reported. He closed the papers and handed them to Gretchen with a crooked smile. “Next time, don’t forget them, or I won’t be so easily persuaded.”

“I won’t. I certainly won’t,” said Carter, barely biting back the _oh boy_ that struggled to get past his lips. 

“Fine. You may go.” The guard waved them away and returned to his place beside his sergeant.

“I think we should be getting you home, Gretchen,” said Newkirk, putting his hand on Carter’s shoulder and steering him towards the door. “This has been enough excitement for one night.”

Carter bobbed his head silently and followed along. 

\--------------------------------------------

They walked in silence until they left town, the darkness scarcely more dense outside Hammelburg than inside with the black-out in effect. Carter once again carried his handbag, retrieved by Newkirk and stashed until they left the Cat’s Cradle. He was too tense to swing it and held it hooked on his elbow instead, the soft leather pressed against his side. 

“Boy, that one was too close,” he said at last when they were beyond sight of the final house on the town’s outskirts and walking among the dark woods. Only the moon and stars poured down light, a faint pale illumination of the dirt road. 

“It could ‘ave been nice and simple. But no, you ‘ad to drop your ‘andbag out the ruddy window.”

“I was under duress,” shot back Carter, frowning. “Besides, you weren’t the one who had to stand up to those goons in a dress. What if they’d found me out?” He didn’t quite carry the bantering tone he was aiming for; the words came out harsh and fearful instead. “I mean, it’s one thing to be taken away as an imposter. But in a dress…” the stark realities of the dangers he faced had only occurred truly in the face of the Gestapo. He couldn’t seem to shake the pit of dread in his stomach, the icy tendrils of fear that radiated outwards and left him shivering even in the warm summer night. 

“But they didn’t find you out – thanks, I might add, to me. No good dwelling on what didn’t ‘appen.”

Carter shook his head, thinking of the guard’s rank breath and the eager look in his eye. “Somehow that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better.” He pulled the handbag in closer to his side, until his elbow was digging into his hip.

“’Ow ‘bout this, then? When we get back, I’ll be sure to tell the colonel that you were a complete flop on the mission – that way, ‘e’ll think twice before sending you out as Gretchen again.”

“Gee, you’d do that for me?”

“If it’d keep me from running another mission with Gretchen, I’d say just about anything,” returned Newkirk, grinning. 

Carter considered it for a moment. “That’s – hey. _Hey!_ I’m not that bad.”

Newkirk clapped his shoulder. “Nah, Andrew; you’re alright.”

END


End file.
